Silence
by L'histoire
Summary: "Sequel" to Half a Year. Very faint SB spoilers in chs. 1-3, actual SB spoilers in chapter 4. Otherwise, just a bunch of feels with Aymeric & the WoL (2nd person, so suit to your own tastes).
1. Quiet

Time passes, as it always does. You're still not much for keeping time, though Aymeric doesn't seem to mind, gods bless him and his patience – his letters arrive regularly, yours back to him are a little more sporadic. But, with everything going on, such a thing is expected.

Your heart lifts at one point when you turn and see him charging up the stairs of the occupied palace with a group of Temple Knights – he's more elegant in battle than you by far, quite beautiful actually, those clanging trappings you hate so flashing in the sun. He takes your breath away for a few beats, and something quivers within you: _Maybe … after_ , you think to yourself, before setting in motion again to join your small group.

 _Ishgard remembers_ , another knight later says to you as you dash by – your heartbeat is pounding in your ears so you hardly catch it. But you _do_ catch it, and it cheers you: you remember Ishgard, to say the least. It is pleasant to be so supported in times like these. You need more pleasant things in your life. It has been an all too terrible past few weeks, past few months.

After the final, bloody, overwhelming – completely overwhelming, more than that, utterly _astonishing_ \- confrontation you are exhausted, dirty, blood-stained, and not much in the mood for celebration, despite the encouragement of your comrades. They all seem so happy, and indeed, you are gladdened to see so many people _so_ happy, but you can't bring yourself to join them: your heart aches for reasons you can't quite discern. Instead, you make your way to where your chocobo is picketed, alongside the big, stout cavalry birds, and settle down in the cool evening air. It's mostly quiet, though you can still hear the faint sounds of revelry from the city itself, and the occasional fireworks bursting above your head make you shudder.

Still, the absence of people and the sounds of the line – chocobos shifting on the straw strewn for their beds, low fires crackling and popping – sets you at ease. Even the grooms seem to have been let off for this night – a special night, you _should_ be celebrating, you know – save for one or two that are keeping themselves well out of your sight.

You burrow up against the soft feathers of your bird while you take out your journal, for lack of knowing what else to do. You sketch idly, listening to the ambient sounds around you. You can't bring yourself to write anything.

 _I have no idea what to say_ , you write finally, and can pencil in nothing more, at least not tonight. Flipping back through the pages of the little worn book, you ponder how it all culminated in this – so many moments, little and big, shouldn't you have seen this coming? But maybe not …. - your eyes begin to droop as you let yourself be lulled by the rhythm of your bird's breathing. You skim words you wrote not so long ago, in times that seem long ago. You fall into a comfortable rhythm, and you are both so warm ….

You hear your name called softly, and it takes you a few sleep-addled seconds to shift yourself so you can see whoever it is. Your chocobo gives an unhappy _kweh_ in response to your movement, as you throw an arm around its neck to haul yourself up – you were both warm and sleeping, apparently, and it _is_ a little rude to use sleeping companions as ladders, you suppose. But you get to your knees nonetheless and peer into the darkness.

Pale blue eyes meet yours, and he is smiling his inscrutable half-smile.

 _Aymeric?_ – you are astonished, not sure if this is just a dream. You _were_ sleeping, after all. You stand up slowly, showing yourself. _In the name of the Twelve, what are you doing here?_

But he is no apparition, and gives a gentle laugh. The answer to that, he responds, is rather obvious, is it not?"I came to see the champion of the day,' he says, "only to find you sulking with your chocobo."

You huff in irritation – and, you realize in a searing flash, hurt. You are not _sulking_ , you tell him, temper rising despite being thrilled to see him so close. Your peculiar anger in this moment overwhelms anything else. You point out that you are _tired_ and _sore_ and don't feel much like celebrating, which – your voice reaching a sharp pitch you're rather certain you've never used with him – seems _completely reasonable_ considering the hell you've been through on this day.

You know his gentle teasing is simply because what else _could_ one say in this moment, he doesn't know how to broach the quiet of the night and your unexpected isolation, and your response is outsized. He's right, it is an odd place for the victor of the day to spend an evening. Still, his comment cuts you to the quick on this evening, offhanded as it might have been; for tonight you are fragile, feeling like you'll shatter into a thousand pieces if someone breathes too noisily. No one ever thinks of you as fragile, of course, but it's a state even you have some familiarity with.

Your face falls. You just want him, and don't want to talk about the day's proceedings, or why you're here on the picket lines instead of toasting friends in the city. You're tired, in no mood to be teased, however lovingly. You just want to – _be._

He asks you not to look so – you're not even sure what your expression is at the moment, you guess it's probably somewhere in between _horrifically depressed_ and _disappointed_ – and thus you try not to look so. But it's hard: you _are_ tired, and dirty, and your heart is aching - so you stand there like a statue, unable to move. You probably still _look so_ , despite your efforts. He is on you soon, and even with his clanging trappings on – the ones you so dislike – you fairly collapse against him, just happy to feel him against you once again, as he pulls you into an embrace and apologizes for his comment. You murmur an acknowledgement into his chest. _It's fine, fine_ , you say. It's not fine. Nothing is fine. Except this feeling of him against you.

You've missed him. And the feel of him; beneath the armor and the regalia, you can feel _him_ , and it makes your heart leap a bit. You just want to dissolve into tears – you are wound rather tightly after the events of the day – but you breathe, _in-out, in-out_ , against him, and feel your heart beat slowing, your breath slowing.

He asks if you'd like to retire to his quarters - or yours, he offers hastily. Does he realize, you wonder, that yours are little more than a dirty closet, hence why you'd prefer to be out with your faithful companion in clean straw (it's yet another bit of salt in your wounds, as if you needed any more: you don't expect palatial, but gods be damned, how hard would it be to quarter you in a place that didn't compare _unfavorably_ to a _picket line for chocobos_? Haven't you earned at least that?). Probably not, and there's no reason to air this particular grievance at the moment – it's not his fault, in any case. Hard to imagine Aymeric overlooking such a detail, or being thoughtless in such a way. You mumble a _yes, yours_ into his chest, still trying not to cry. He whispers to you, asking you to look at him – so you do. Does he see how much your heart hurts? You don't know – but he looks on you, strokes your face, apologizes again.

 _Apology accepted_ , you respond while trying to tell him through your touch that you've missed him _._ This reunion makes you sad, though: does no one realize the toll all this takes on you? Can't anyone just admit this is all too much for any one person to bear, whatever their blessings? You know Aymeric recognizes it, he's said as much before, but why then is it a surprise you want to escape the rowdy celebrations? Can't someone just say _I'm sorry_ for once, even if the offense is not theirs, understand why you make your way to the quiet of the temporary stables instead of the celebrations?

He takes you by the hand - you let him - and leads you into the darkness. The temporary darkness, before the city bursts into light - until you can escape into quiet halls and dark rooms.


	2. Ripples

As it turns out, his quarters aren't _that_ much of an improvement on yours, but at least the room is a little cleaner and a little larger. The knights posted in the hallway – it seems the whole floor of the building has been requisitioned as Ishgardian headquarters – look a bit surprised to see _you_ with the Lord Commander at such an hour, but you are far beyond caring at this moment. _Let them talk_ , you say to yourself, so tired you don't even realize you've said it _out loud_. Then Aymeric glances at you, replies quietly enough so that only the two of you can hear, 'The yappy ones aren't posted anywhere that requires a modicum of discretion _._ '

His comment makes you laugh, and he looks slightly relieved that something has – at least for the moment – pulled you out of your dark mood.

 _Well, it's hardly the sumptuous environs of Ishgardian manor houses_ , you think to yourself as you appraise the room, but it's tidy and the bed looks comfortable. It is at least more than a glorified cot. There's a bath adjoining the chamber, which you practically light up at seeing ( _it's the little things_ , you often find yourself remarking in times like these. It _is_ the little things), and he seems pleased to see your expression change. You explain: _you_ have to share with everyone else, but not here. Not with him. _May I have a bath?_ you query. He looks at you as though you've just asked whether or not you can resurrect Nidhogg.

'Of course you can,' he says with a bit of surprise _._ 'You can have anything you'd like.' And he means it - at least, if it's something he can give you. You're practically giddy with excitement. The sounds of fireworks and celebrating residents may be much closer than you'd like, but there are no baths on picket lines. Or Aymerics. Such are the trade-offs you balance.

You won't let him touch you when you're in this condition – allowing him to take your hand was bad enough, gods only know what's under your nails, on your calloused palms – so beg off to soak away the grime of the day, and hopefully some of your anxiety and sorrow.

Thus you find yourself submerged in a rather disappointing tub – though as long as it holds water, it's sufficient – in a tiny box of a room, alternately blowing bubbles on the surface of water that is rapidly turning a dingy color as you work more of the day's dirt off, and slipping down so only your eyes are above the surface, becoming something like those odd creatures in the Ruby Sea that burrow into the sand.

You are doing just such a thing - holding your breath and contemplating the way the low lights of the little room play on the ripples in the bath as you move - when he enters, startling you. So you have occasion – just like those strange beings – to pop up, fine arcs of water scattering all over the floor. He apologizes for his intrusion as you press a hand over your heart, hoping it doesn't beat out of your chest.

'You forgot your clean clothes,' he explains, holding out a few pieces you'd taken from your pack before escaping to the bath. 'I assumed you wouldn't want to return to what you wore today.'

You blink a few times before responding, trying to gather your thoughts. Maybe you shouldn't have agreed to leave the picket lines, if only because you're not really ready to be dealing with others – even him. Finally, you stammer a thank you and an apology – he shouldn't be acting like a butler, delivering clean clothes as you lounge in hot water and soap bubbles, thinking about rippling light.

He looks at you, tilting his head, and you wish you could read all the complexities of his expression. He asks you not to apologize; he insists crisply in that rich voice of his, ' _you have nothing to apologize for_.' His tone says he will brook no argument on this point, and he simply sets your clothes down within reach, leaves you to your hot water and soap. It occurs to you he probably has a tremendous amount of work to be doing, dispatches and instructions and political maneuvering to attend to, and yet here he is: delivering a neatly folded pile of clothes to you while you laze in a hot bath, having fetched you from the picket lines. The clothes hadn't been folded when you pulled them out of your bag and promptly forgot them.

You sink back down into the water, blowing more bubbles across the surface, watching the light reflect on them, as you continue to scrub away at the day's muck. You're thinking about the myriad reasons you love him so, how he is much too generous and good for you. And how you're so sorry you can't just be _happy_ in this moment.


	3. Wanting

You wake up in the middle of the night with a shriek; apparently you've been restlessly dreaming, for he's awake and already pulling you to him as you flail and fling the covers off, trying to sit up, blind to everything but the need to _get out_. His touch brings you back to reality as he holds you close; panting against his chest, you try to catch your breath and slow your heart that is beating wildly out of control.

'Is it always like this?' Aymeric finally asks while he strokes your back in an attempt to soothe you. You're not sure it's really helping, but it's certainly not hurting anything.

Ah, yes, you realize belatedly. This would be the first time he's been so close, so soon after one of these taxing battles. First time he's seen the mask drop – at least like this. You shake your head. Not always. But sometimes. There are reasons you often don't like to reappear in civilization until you've had time to bring your nerves down a few notches.

This was not the reunion you'd dreamed of – not any of it. Well, perhaps the hot bath, but even then: not exactly the marble tub you'd hoped to sink down into.

He holds you close, and you acquiesce to it until you don't: then you prop yourself up above him. And this time, _you_ are the one brokering no objections. His fingers trace patterns down your skin as you look on him. Goosebumps spring up in the wake of his touch and you try not to shudder. You are looking at each other in decidedly serious manner: this really, _really_ wasn't what you had dreamed of. Miserable Warrior, slightly more happy (you think?) Lord Commander; regardless, not the romantic interlude you had thought of while dragging yourself through the events of the past few months.

But, he's here. And touching you lovingly as you look on him with a sort of feral hunger and want. And while you think on how you've missed him.

You lean close to him so that your lips are almost touching, but you don't kiss him. You just murmur into his wanting lips –wanting yours, you know, but that would be too simple and -

 _Just make me forget_ , you tell him. He looks at you seriously, his gaze searing. He can't make you forget. He doesn't even need to say it, you know that's what he's thinking, and of course it's true. _Just for now_ , you practically beg. You have been reduced to this by the events of the day, and you wonder if he is shocked by it. _Just enough to sleep for a few hours._ _That's all. That's all_ , you keep murmuring into him.

 _Please_. You _are_ begging. You never beg. But you are now. You're begging _him_. You'd be ashamed of yourself if you weren't feeling so desperate.

He hesitates still, as he looks at you with those eyes of his – those beautiful, pale blue eyes.

 _Please_. You kiss him where you can reach – collarbone, shoulder, neck, you don't try his lips because, _well_ …– just trying to communicate it's _ok_ , it's _fine_ , really it's _fine_ , everything is fine and this will be fine and there will be time to sort complicated things out later.

He strokes the contours of your face, looking at you for a long while, before he's on you with shocking speed and strength, rolling you over so you are beneath him, and _oh gods how has it been so long_ you think to yourself before letting yourself get utterly swept away.

It's fast and hard and wanting, just as you wanted it: you're both strong and taut and grasping at each other with a certain kind of ferocity that you're not sure the two of you have ever expressed before, and all is right in the world for a few minutes at least. You can deal with the emotional fallout of the day tomorrow. And it's good, and it is enough. _He_ is enough.

You need to remind yourself of this in coming days: he _is_ enough.


	4. Starlight

When you wake again, it is still dark. Realizing that the bed beside you is cold, it dawns on you that the day must have passed, it is evening again. The only light in the room comes from the lamps in the streets. You sit up groggily – you've slept too long, and so feel tired again already – contemplate the darkness of the room, and wonder where Aymeric is. As if in answer to your thoughts, the door opens, the sudden intrusion of light making you recoil a bit. But at least, as you can tell from the silhouette, it's him.

He takes in a sharp breath at the sight of you (groggy, squinting you), and you hear his murmured thanks to the Fury.

You mumble something about being tired, and apologize for sleeping the day away; he laughs gently, shakes his head as he makes his way to you and takes your hand which you hold out to him, kneeling down beside the bed.

"'Tis nothing, and fair enough that you should sleep for so long after such a day: I simply worried it might be something more serious than exhaustion, and wondered whether or not to call the chirurgeons."

You laugh at the thought: half-naked Warrior of Light, in the rather rumpled bed of the Lord Commander of Ishgard. _Well, that would have set tongues wagging_ , you smile at him.

He smiles back, in on the joke, says there will be no need to set the gossips loose at this particular moment. Asks if you're hungry, if you need anything. If this were anyone else, you think to yourself, they'd probably be launching you off on to some new mission that could easily be done by a raw recruit. Aymeric isn't the only person to note the absurdity of the go-here-do-this instructions you often get in between requests to "kill this terrifying thing that is an immediate threat to the future of all Eorzea," but he's one of the few that never requests such trivial things of you.

You tell him you'd like to go check on your bird, and maybe collect the rest of your gear – assuming, of course, you add hastily, that he doesn't mind a rather sullen Warrior of Light in his chambers for the next few days. _You are not sullen_ , he responds affectionately, adding that he _certainly_ doesn't mind you here, and it will indeed be a few days before everyone scatters to the winds, and better you remain here – with him – than out on the picket lines.

He helps you dress, and there's something comforting about this bit of domesticity in the midst of rather wild times. Your armor, while not parade ready, has been cleaned, you note with a bit of surprise. He shrugs. A hold over from younger days, he explains. _There's always been something calming about the ritual of cleaning and polishing_. He still manages to surprise you at the oddest of times: the _Lord Commander_ , cleaning your gear while you slept a deep and dreamless sleep, in between sending dispatches here and there, dealing with other leaders, handling all that he does on a daily basis. Aymeric looks back at you, smiling faintly. _It's the least someone could do for you_ _after the events of yesterday_.

You'd like to kiss him for his thoughtfulness, but are afraid that one thing might lead to another, so kiss his hands instead – _one, two_ (a few more on the way to a million). He simply looks pleased to see _you_ looking so pleased.

The city seems hungover in multiple senses, thus no one pays any particular attention to the two of you making your way to the gates. Your faithful companion is fine, nestled into a thick bed of sweet-smelling straw, and from the modest camp on the outskirts of the city, you manage to collect your paltry gear – saddlebags, a bedroll, clothing and sundries enough to be contained in a middling-sized pack – without having to answer any pointed questions from anyone important. Still, you're not quite ready to return to the confines of a requisitioned Ala Mhigan apartment block, and instead lead the way up a long staircase to the walls of the city.

You let yourself relax a bit here - side by side, the two of you lean against a balustrade, close but not too close ( _clanging trappings_ are about, you note ruefully). You and Aymeric are both looking up to the sky, at the stars wheeling overhead, simply taking in the twin darkness and brightness of night, when you tell him what Zenos said to you. What unsettles you so.

 _He called me his friend. His first friend. And enemy, too, of course._ You look at your feet, the worn leather that clads them. He spoke of how you were alike. How you were the _same_. That you both live for nothing but battle. It caught you off-guard, and made you question a great many things about your life. It hurt, not the least because it made you ask yourself – once again – how others viewed you.

You tell Aymeric all of this. You are – have been – practically ill over it, were even while flinging yourself at Zenos with all the force you could bring to bear. Because maybe it's – maybe it's true, you admit to Aymeric. Good, faithful, loyal Aymeric, who would never be called _friend_ by such a monster; no one else you know would be, just you, and this is what had alarmed you so. Maybe the Garlean prince was _right_.

After all, you _are_ just good for battle, apparently, as far as most people are concerned – and fetching things, you suppose, but mostly battle. Aren't you put to it like any other good weapon would be? And who thinks of what their sword would say, their axe, their elegant katana – their faerie or summon? All things to be used, part of the job. They do what they do. So you do, too. You are set on a purpose and you do it. Perhaps Zenos wasn't so far off the mark.

It depresses you, the very idea. But you can't deny your actions over the past few years support it. Your shoulders slump, and you sigh. You're rambling again. Aymeric takes your hand reassuringly, and you glance up at him.

Your letters to him were full of everything _but_ fighting, he points out gently. 'I would be surprised indeed to learn Zenos yae Galvus had ever written anything so lyrical - as you did - on the subject of the way the moon shines on the ruins and half-crumbling walls in Doma,' he says. You redden a little at the statement. It's far too generous an assessment of your scribblings.

'They were a delight to read,' he says quietly, as though he can hear your thoughts, your uncertainty. He's looking at the stars again, then looks back to you. 'I could see everything, nothing here was a surprise when I arrived. No mean feat, when describing it all to one tied to Ishgard, dear Warrior.'

You wish his statement were enough to ease your heart; it's not. But it's a start. You look back up at the stars, wheeling across the sky, uncaring, unfeeling – cold, perhaps. But beautiful nonetheless. Maybe there is unburdened life after this - whatever 'after' means these days - being able to enjoy little moments like these, as you do now, in this moment. With a Lord Commander, _clanging trappings_ and all, beside you, just looking at the stars.


	5. Home

The Lord Commander ( _Lord Speaker_ , at that) invites you back to Ishgard (though, as he notes, you hardly need to be invited anywhere; still, it's nice to be wanted) after all the business of patting selves on backs and celebrating liberation is concluded. Oh, _liberation_ : if only things were this easy. They won't be; you can only imagine what's coming next, and it honestly frightens you a bit. With this unease in the back of your mind, you go – though not _with_ him, you take a week or two to yourself to ride and meander and unwind, which he well understands. And when you arrive back in the snowy city, grimy, rather smelly, and more utterly delighted with life than you've been in months, _he's_ utterly delighted to see you.

One night during dinner, you're looking into your cup of wine and musing on how odd it is that no one's been in touch with you – not that you're complaining, it's just _odd_ , aren't there packages to be delivered or some trussed-up intrigue that requires your immediate and undivided attention? Aymeric says nothing, so you look up, and he's wearing a slightly queer expression. You tilt your head and quirk an eyebrow, silently asking him what the look's for.

As he spears a vegetable on his plate, he gazes at you calmly and says it's possible – _just possible, mind_ – that he had mentioned to your comrades that you were needed rather urgently in Ishgard for the foreseeable future, and really – any requests of a rather routine nature ought to be kept to a minimum, lest you find yourself overwhelmed.

 _Urgently needed?_ you query, a little confused. _For what?_ He certainly hasn't mentioned anything to you, and Ishgard seems to be proceeding much as Ishgard does: political squabbles, religious debates, everyone stumbling their way to a future that is still being decided (however, none of this requires _you_ , which is one reason you're comfortable in the city at the moment).

He gives a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders, gestures at the table between you, spread with food, two goblets of wine, a bottle or two from his cellar - then gets back to eating.

You try not to choke on the sip of wine you've just taken and start to laugh. He glances back at you with a rather rakish look and a slight smile, and you adore him so fiercely in this moment your heart could burst. If you weren't in the middle of dinner, you'd get up to kiss him. For the first long while you knew him, you never would have dreamed him capable of such subterfuge; but then, he survived his climb up the ranks in Ishgard – more than that, thrived while doing it - and he didn't manage it by simply being straight-laced and obedient.

 _Lord Commander, I do think that's the sweetest thing anyone's done on my behalf in recent memory_ , you pant as you try and catch your breath.

He smiles at you again, tells you someone has to look out for your well-deserved vacations. You're glad it's him; gods know no one else will do it, and you yourself are simply bad at saying _no_.

Your urgent needs these days, then, consist of whatever you feel like at a particular moment: sometimes it's riding out for days on end, visiting places and people you haven't seen in too long. Often you make your way to House Fortemps, keep the count company. Sometimes it's sparring with the young recruits, who look on you with more than a bit of awe and terror, even as their instructors hiss at them that _the Warrior of Light will not be going full-out, stop looking like you're facing down the great wyrm_. Sometimes it's draping yourself in an armchair and reading whatever books in the Borel mansion catch your fancy. He seems to like this best: the look on his face when he returns after a long day of wrangling bureaucracy and finds you lazing about his house is charming. He always looks pleased to see you so relaxed.

You get to know each other – _really_ know each other – in this period. You've known each other for a very long time, of course, but it's something different now: you know how he moves in sleep, he knows how the scars map across your body. You both now know the spots the other finds ticklish. There are lazy mornings and late evenings, a whole host of pleasant things you've haven't had in a very long time. There is much laughter, and teasing, and kissing, among other things. This makes both of you happy.

You wake up one morning with him murmuring into you that you've been requested, _something_ is happening, though it doesn't sound terribly taxing. You lean over him after you've fully woken and realized there are things you have to attend to, a little sad that this idyll has come to an end. You promise him you'll be back soon. You look at each other quite seriously, quite unlike the way you've looked at each other the past few months – which could be described many ways, but _seriously_ is not one, for the most part – and you promise with look and touch that you'll be home as quickly as you can. And _home_ at the moment means – well, perhaps it means Ishgard, at least in part. But really, right now, home means him, wherever he is.


End file.
